


Smokescreen and Swindle: The Beginning

by Ayngelcat



Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-10-22
Updated: 2011-11-14
Packaged: 2017-10-24 20:47:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/267717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ayngelcat/pseuds/Ayngelcat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set pre-war and pre 'Uninvited Guest,' here's how it started with these two! This story has no adult content for now - but *warning* it will soon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ultharkitty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ultharkitty/gifts).



CHAPTER ONE

 

It was the start of another cycle at the bank of Iacon.

A cluster of mechs gathered in the morning Iacon sun outside the huge revolving doors. On the other side, the clamour of activity echoed in the marble floored concourse, the Bank’s employees heading for their many stations as the great institution, the financial stalwart of Cybertron’s capital, prepared to grind into action.

Smokescreen joined their throng. Surprisingly sprightly, considering how tired he was from the previous night’s ‘activities’, the Datsun with the twitching doorwings made his way along, past the concierge desk and the security station, past the express elevators where the Bank’s finest prepared for the spacious glass walled offices in the highest storeys, to the rather more humble conveyance leading up to level three - and his very humble office in the low to medium loans department.

An aroma of alloys and regular grade fuel filled the elevator, twinged with a whiff of high grade which lingered on the Datsun, courtesy of ‘Vibrations’ Nightclub. But the other faces were expressionless. Recognizing a couple of them, Smokescreen nodded and the mechs nodded back, still expressionless.

Then there was a clunk, a hiss of doors, and the mechs walked stolidly off across the concourse – also marble floored – past the reception desk, past the crystal sculptures and busts of previous heads of the Department, to the little bubble shaped cubicle offices and their days’ trade.

..................

Arriving in his cubicle, Smokescreen shut the door and sat down heavily, glad to be out of the morning bustle, so incongruent with how he really felt and pleased that the frosted glass on the lower half of the office windows obscured him.  He looked at his desk, a sea of datapads, empty cubes and beverage trays. The Datsun sighed. The day yawned ahead, a lengthy chasm of tiredness and tedium – and he was hungover and behind!  Still – Smokescreen brightened - there was always ‘afterwards’ to look forward to. Like – a second trip to _Vibrations …._

And first things first! Smiling to himself, Smokescreen opened a cabinet and reached in, extracting a cube of midgrade. Cracking it, he sipped, thoughtfully. Pleasant memories drifted through his processor:  the throbbing music, the crush of hot metal bodies, the scent of alloys and ozone and ‘grade. Yes – he might just see if that blue grounder with the alphamech like curves was there again. The one he could so easily have ended up with if that other one with the black doors hadn’t happened along ...

There was activity outside, and Smokescreen caught sight of of the pointed head of Dirge, his supervisor, approaching as he did the final checks. Smokescreen hastily replaced the cube as the sombre flyer passed by. Dirge cast a suspicious look over the top of the frosted glass, his red optics narrowing. It reminded Smokescreen only too well that he had some ground to make up – both for the backlog and the two cycles he had taken off last week.

Smokescreen forced a smile at the flyer, who nodded curtly back. The Datsun felt a little better. Hell! That was a good sign,  about as good as you got from Dirge. Yeah - perhaps Dirge was pleased that he was at least at work this cycle – and a not displeased Dirge  was one less thing to worry about. Removing a connection from his wrist and feeling a little more cheerful, Smokescreen plugged it into the computer console.

The large screen came to life. Smokescreen glanced briefly at the notice which said “Greetings Smokescreen! Welcome to another cycle. As a valued employee, we know you will help the Bank keep its name as Cybertron’s greatest financial institution ...” before switching to his ‘list.’

But as the words appeared on the screen, the Datsun’s spark plunged again. Applications for crystal gardens financing, a funeral, an extension to an apartment in the White Sands District, and some Beta from Tarn who wanted to send a sparkling to the Praxan College of Art. Smokescreen sighed. Try as he might, he could not - as usual – raise even a grain of enthusiasm.

Retrieving the cube, Smokescreen sipped on it. His thoughts drifted again, and a pleasant raft of tingles went through his circuits.  That grounder had been _veery_ nice.  And not just in that way, but – well he had been good to talk to. Interesting. A bit ‘classy.’ The type Smokescreen could _have_ something with.

Because - Smokescreen let out a sigh – oh how he yearned for ‘something meaningful.’ Somebody who wasn’t just a brief partner in the darkness of the interface room. A _relationship_ – somebody he could care for and be cared about. Someone he could ‘explore’ with, a ‘mate’ in tune with his own spark with whom he could stride into the future and forget about his tedious, unfulfilled existence in the most boring office in the whole of Cybertron ….

A loud ‘TING’ sounded then, signifying the start of business. The pleasant image of the blue grounder disappeared. Like it or not, the day’s agenda just became a reality. Yes, Smokescreen would just have to -  for now - give his attention to client number one, the Tarn aspirer hoping for the brat’s place in Praxus. Hastily clearing some of the receptacles to create at least some semblance of order, the Datsun clicked the ‘door open’ mechanism,  ready to smile his special manufactured Bank of Iacon ‘excellent service’ smile, and to pretend excitement about credit, equity, timelines and payback options.

But when the elevator doors opened and the clients came spilling out, making their way to the various cubicles, none made their way over. Smokescreen brightened.  His client might be a ‘no show.’ That would be excellent! It would give him time to check out the race results – another pleasant distraction from the chains of his existence in this office. But no, he thought glumly. The mech was probably just late. Which meant Smokescreen would be behind schedule for the rest of the cycle – something which could curtail his later plans.

The frown turned to a scowl. Just his luck! Oh well, he may as well do some brief ‘catching up’ now. Disconnecting from the computer and  picking up some datapads, Smokescreen began shuffling through them.

So much for ‘meeting someone!’ Who could possibly be interested in his unutterable life here?

Gathering a bundle in his hand, Smokescreen rose. He might as well file a few things – at least it would make sure his pedantic supervisor _stayed_ happy at his presence here.  

But it was then, as Smokescreen poised by the filing cabinet, that something caught his optic - a flash of yellow from the direction of the elevator. The Datsun glanced over. Then stopped what he was doing, and stared – for an extraordinary looking mech had just alighted on the concourse.

...........................

The mech was glancing around. A warm tingling spread through Smokescreen. He was exquisite! All golden and purple hues, the mech had Alpha caste in him. That much was obvious, also, from the air of confidence - which only an Elite would exude. Yet he was smaller and stockier, and altogether much – cuter - than a purecast Alpha. His face was darker too – but far from these un-Alpha traits being unappealing, they made him incredibly attractive.

And he was here - right here in the low to medium loans department! Smokescreen gaped over the top of the frosted glass.

The mech walked a little further, and then looked around again, scanning the loan application booths with what Smokescreen could now see were large purple optics. Smokescreen squeed inside. His favourite coloured optics! And they bore a mischevious glint, which made the mech's dark face somehow even more appealing.

A surge of excitement went through Smokescreen. He glanced along the line of booths on either side of his. None of them were vacant! All his colleagues’ clients had – apparently - arrived. He looked back to the elevator doors, past the yellow mech. Still no sign of anyone else headed his way!

The mech was still standing there. Smokescreen could delay no longer. It did not matter that clients were supposed to have appointments. He simply could not pass up this opportunity! Shutting the filing cabinet and putting the pads down, the Datsun strode to the door.

The mech turned and spotted him. His purple optics flared, slightly. Then a crooked little smile appeared on his faceplates; and now, he was coming across, his yellow paint glinting in the concourse chandeliers, a bouncy little stride manifesting, yet not eclipsing at all the thoroughly business like veneer which exuded forth as his footsteps echoed.    

Then, panic seized Smokescreen. For a start, he was sure he must look ‘seedy’ – even if his hangover wasn’t as bad as earlier. He glanced wildly at his desk. His desk! What would this mech – this clear professional - _think?_

Throwing himself into the chair, Smokescreen hastily started bundling the remaining datapads together. As the mech came to the door he pulled out his data wrist connection and went to plug it back into the database console. At least he could launch straight into ‘finance’ talk  - as Smokescreen was certain this _clear businessmech_ would want to do.

But, tragically, in his haste, the connector jammed in the computer port, which meant that by the time the mech came to the door Smokescreen was fumbling. He gave it such a yank trying to pull it out that the entire console moved across the desk. Datapads fell to the floor with a clatter.

“Whehey! Careful there!”  Smokescreen looked up. The mech grinned. “Can I help?” he said, bending to pick up the pads and putting them on the desk.  His stunning optics went to the connector in Smokescreen’s hand. “Tricky things, connectors!” he said. “Lucky I’m good at getting tight things out of sticky spots.”

......................

Already, the mech was shaping up to have all those hallmarks Smokescreen ‘liked.’ Similar to the blue grounder, except - _forget_ about the blue grounder (who seemed ‘attached’ anyway)  – this mech was  _gorgeous!_ He had a ‘presence’ – no doubt due to his Alpha side and which the blue grounder certainly lacked - which was difficult to ignore. And he was not only flashy and witty, but seemed so friendly and interested! He could even be – Smokescreen hardly dared to think it – the ONE …

But this was ridiculous, of course. Hell, Smokescreen had only just met him! So the Datsun struggled to stop heat and excitement from taking him over, and to at least appear like a Finance Professional, rather than something resembling a gibbering, mechalescent idiot.  

The name’s Swindle,” the mech had said, still clearly amused, and he’d held out a small black hand. Smokescreen had taken it, heat rushing through him just at the _feel_ of it. He was still trying to get over the embarrassment with the connection, which he had  - mercifully – managed to extract without the mech’s help and stowed away.

Now, Swindle smiled, charmingly. A classy glass windscreen set in his chest reflected Smokescreen’s blue and red paint. Black shoulder wheels twitched as his optics ran quickly over Smokescreen’s wings and his expression shifted, in a way which did nothing for the Datsun’s attempts to keep his core temperature under control. The smile returned. “Nice place you have here!” he said.

Smokescreen beamed back. “Why, thank you!” he said. “It’s – uh – its just my office.”

Inwardly, the Datsun groaned. That wasthe _best_ he could come up with? It could well be that he was out of his league – yeah, that was the sad fact. But surely he could, _at the very least_ , ‘help’ the mech, professionally. Say something normal, like: “How can I be of assistance?”

Swindle’s optics were scanning the walls. They settled on the only one which wasn’t glass, and on the only picture in the office. He sat back, making an impressed sounding noise. “Say – inspiring!” he said. “That’s the view from the Observatorium, ain’t it? Been up there a few times myself.”

“Uh – yeah, it is,” Smokescreen agreed, glancing briefly at the picture, but then unable to stop his gaze moving from the windscreen to the purple pelvic armour, now just visible over the desk.  “It’s uh – windy though.”

He cringed inside. Why was he suddenly such a retard?  And why did he have to perve at the mech’s nether regions. No – he must at least _try_ and be professional. Looking straight at Swindle, he cleared his throat. “Uh ...uh .. are you after a loan?”

Swindle smiled another charming smile.   “Kinda!” he said. “I’m what you call an _entrepreneur_ , see? I buy and sell stuff – you know, set up deals, get commission. A little extra cash injection would be kinda – _useful_ – right now.”

“Oh!” Swindle had just ascended another notch in the Datsun’s estimation. That sounded so – daring. Exciting! But – the Datsun despaired - so unlike his own boring existence. How could that possibly interest this mech? Smokescreen felt heat rush through him again, but this time his spark gave a twang of longing. “Do you – uh – operate in Iacon?” he asked.

Swindle was watching him closely. Smokescreen felt hope rise. Maybe the job wouldn't matter! “From time to time,” Swindle said. “I kinda – go all over. Altihex, Praxus, Tarn, Ganthis – sometimes offworld. Right now, Iacon, yeah.”

Smokescreen’s spark sank. He'd never even _been_ to half the Cybertron places, let alone offworld. Now he felt even more inadequate!

“I’ve kinda worked my way up, mind. Used to stick to jewellery and trinkets.” Swindle went on. “It’s taken a while to get to my ‘current level.’ But now, a project which is kinda – promising - has come my way.” His optics glinted. “Little place called Iacca Niara. Dunno if you’ve heard of it? Not that the business is actually _there._ It’s kind of – all over. Kaon, and like places.”

And now, a real thrill ran through Smokescreen’s circuits. Iacca Niara! It was an Alpha stronghold, an original seat, before the Great Transition. A strange, rather creepy place in the Iron Mountains, the Alphas who had remained there and not moved to the Towers or Altihex regions considered themselves exclusive, in a class of their own.

And they were a great deal more into illegal activities than legal ones, in places like - the Blocks of Kaon - if the stories were true. Smokescreen’s cousin Prowl, a cadet at the Praxan law Enforcement Academy had had much to say on the subject at the last 'family do.' Smokescreen could not help it. He felt a shadow creep on to his faceplates.

Swindle’s face changed also. He looked ‘pained.’ “I don’t mean the Blocks, mind,” he said quickly. “More like – the heights. The better Kaon suburbs – and no _shonky stuff!_ ”

Smokescreen felt instantly terrible. “No I didn’t mean to be ... I ... uh ...” And now, he was ashamed of himself. How could he automatically equate this obvious experienced and no doubt _respected_ operator with stuff like that? It just showed how immovable and prejudicial his staid Praxan upbringing had really been! And to think that he, Smokescreen, professed not to be like his cousin! Worse, a certainty of having ‘blown it’ now invaded the Datsun’s processor.

Yes - his spark sank - for a pall of melancholy appeared to engulf Swindle. “All right - I know what they say about Iacca,” the yellow mech said. “But this is totally above board! And the thing is …."

His optics became large and baleful. “This is my big break!" he stammered. "I gotta get off world somehow and get some – what you might call high quality merchandise. Then the guy’s gonna put me on a retainer. But ….” his shoulders slumped. “I got no credits!”

Swindle shook his head, sadly. “I guess its back to peddling jewellery!”

And now, the purple optics looked utterly bereft. Swindle’s optic ridges knitted, his expression as one who has had a dream come so close - only to be dashed away. And Smokescreen realized then what was the real attraction, not the mech’s flashy professionalism and not only his looks: but that he was a trier, a battler, not like the staid mechs who usually came in here but an adventurer, a risk taker after Smokescreen’s own spark – for whom, just like Smokescreen, life was not always plain sailing.

And Smokescreen felt a rush of ‘feeling’ for him. A kinship! He would help this mech! He would banish any silly notions about Iacca Niara and pull out all the stops. After all, having no credits wasn’t the end of the universe! Was it not his job – he Smokescreen, loan expert of the Bank of Iacon – to find ‘innovative solutions’ for the Bank’s ‘customers?

Smokescreen smiled, knowledgeably. “You have an account here though, right?”

Swindle nodded. “But its kinda – empty!” He looked on the verge of despair.

“That’s – not a problem.” Smokescreen was undeterred. “All you need is some collateral!”

But Swindle only looked more despondent. “That’s the problem, see? I kinda – haven’t got any of that either!” He sighed. “Its a long story. I got in an argument with some shuttles over a title to space station realty. They won, I lost.” He shook his head. “They could afford the legal fees, you see, whereas I ... _I had no hope!”_

Smokescreen had hitherto had no feelings for shuttleformers one way or the other. Now, he felt a sudden dislike for them. He made a mental note that in future any who came up with any less than the agreed number of points to obtain credit wouldn’t get any. “Greedy slaggers, yeah!” he said sympathetically. “That’s a real shame. Well – d’you have anyone who could put up security? Maybe this mech who’s offering the retainer?’

But Swindle looked at him sharply, alarm shooting into his optics. “No!” he said quickly, “I mean – uh ...” and then he tried, such a gallant effort given  his obvious disappointment, to give a little laugh. “Uh – no!” he said. “He wants me to work for him, see?” he hung his head. “I’m afraid - that wouldn’t be appropriate.”

And it wouldn’t, of course. Another silly question and assumption! Almost as silly as the next thing Smokescreen found himself saying, which was: “Well, that makes it difficult ...”  

“I get it!” Swindle raised his hands in a gesture of resignation. He smiled at Smokescreen sadly. “Oh well - it was nice of you to wanna help!” And he made as if to get up.

Smokescreen reeled inwardly. It could not end here! Not for this courageous battler who had struggled so hard. Smokescreen would _not_ let it all come crashing down. He would ‘save’ Swindle. Yes – he had to. Now!

Besides, he also had to make up for his ‘behaviour’ today - firstly appearing such a jerk, secondly, perving on the guy, thirdly, casting ‘unwarranted aspersions’ on the company a _customer of the Bank_ kept and then being utterly unimaginative in finding solutions! Well - Prowl was right. He was lucky to have this job. It was about time he stopped ‘languishing’ and put it to constructive purpose!

Swindle stood up. The purple optics were upon Smokescreen. Swindle held out his hand, limply, his face a picture of despondency and disappointment. “It’s been nice meeting you!” he whispered.

But Smokescreen hung on to the hand, fixing him with a look of blue opticted determination. “Please, sit down,” he said calmly. “If we could discuss this matter further – over a drink, perhaps - I’ll see what I can do!”

Swindle’s face lit up, his optics shining again. An exuberant smile appeared. “Say - that’d be _swell!”_ he exclaimed, squeezing Smokescreen’s hand.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a hint of Star Wars crossover in this.
> 
> Otherwise - simply Swindle at his sleazy best XD

**TWO**

 **  
**

Chatter and cafe noises filled the air as the mechs who worked at the Bank of Iacon took their midcycle break.

Sipping his expensive cocktail, Swindle surveyed the scene. Groups of rather boring looking mechs surrounded him from whom he caught snatches of equally dull conversation. Swindle estimated they were in similar jobs to the mech with the doorwings, _Smokey_ as the mech in the elevator had referred to him. Although – the businessmech gave a little smile – they were considerably less interesting.  

Through a glass screen at the end, Swindle could see a separate section. In it, elaborate gilded tables set with shimmering cloths and fine utensils were visible.  At the tables, the streamline shapely forms of Alphamechs could plainly be seen. If Swindle strained his audios, he could catch a hint of cultured voices and laughter.

Swindle’s optics glinted. That was the type of place _he_ would soon be recharging in. Far more 'befitting.' And he wasn’t going through some tedious bank career to get it. _Oooh_ no! Not this little ray of starshine.

He took another sip, savouring the rare isotope mix which the waitmech had seemed surprised to be serving him. Yes – he, Swindle was destined for a far more spectacular ascent. And it was all going to begin when this _Smokey_ procured the dosch.

Another little smile appeared on his faceplates. _Discuss the matter further,_ Smokey had said. There wasn’t anything to discuss! Swindle needed the money, Smokey was going to get it. End of story. And he _would_ get it - Swindle was certain of that. And not because of any ‘discussion,’ but because - thesmile broadened - he _liked_ Swindle

Oh yes – Swindle had seen that _look_ before. The blue optics roving lustfully, the ‘posturing.’ Those doorwings had twitched, excitedly, and Swindle had felt heat coming off him, caught the scent of warm alloys when Smokescreen showed him to the elevator. Yes - it had been easy.  All he’d needed was the hint of promise of what Smokey was after for Swindle to get exactly what he wanted.

 _And why not?_ Swindle thought as he lounged back. He might as well use his ‘talents.’  He thought of the dull greyish coloured, solid looking mech in the elevator, representative of those around him now. “You’re not one of Smokey’s regulars,” the mech had said. “No – I’m kinda – a new client!” Swindle had said, and flashed a smile.

The mech had smiled back – in a leering sort of a way which made clear that he thought he was ‘in with a chance.’ Swindle had stifled a smirk. The mech had to be joking! Still, it was always nice to be reminded he had the ‘touch.’  Something which was going to serve him well when it came to the striking red and blue doorwinged one with the gleaming chevron.

So much more attractive and  - Swindle was certain – infinitely more amenable.  

Chuckling to himself, Swindle swirled the last of his drink in his glass. Praxus, Smokey had said he was from. Yes – Swindle didn’t have many contacts there. That could bring other useful opportunities.

Feeling pleased with life, Swindle winked at a group of femmes who’d been trying not to show they were checking him out. Tittering erupted from their table as he finished his drink.

……………….

Time ticked on. No sign of the Praxan. It did not surprise Swindle that the mech was late. He seemed like  one of those ‘types’ who coasted through life on ‘the edge.’ That much was obvious from his office. Swindle had rarely seen a desk in such chaos – and the mech had been tidying when he arrived!   

On the side had been an array of empty cubes, and Swindle had caught a whiff of high grade. He’d also noticed the pile of betting slips next to them, and several tickets to ‘Vibrations’ Nightclub.

Primus only knew how the mech had wound up in the Bank! And the disapproving look from his conehead boss when they crossed to the elevator, Smokey with a spring in his step beside him, suggested the boss thought this too.

But all this made it easier. Smokey clearly needed ‘jollying up,’ a respite from his tedious existence.  It all stacked up as more rewards in return for further ‘favours’ he would do. And – Swindle thought again of the twinkling blue optics and smooth seams - much fun for him.  

Instead of ordering another drink – which he figured Smokey could do - Swindle ran over the ‘plan.’ It was relatively straightforward. Get the money, make contact with this ‘Blast Off’ character  – the shuttle whose services Onslaught had said he could use provided he ‘delivered.’  Give Blast Off the _code word._ Then, when the shuttle was happy Swindle was ‘Onslaught’s mech,’  go to the spaceport, and hence to Warpjunction seventeen.

And that, given that Blast Off could be ‘difficult’ - according to Onslaught’s ‘minders’- was probably the hardest part. At the Junction, he would simply convert Cybertronian credits to Sith Imperial ones, rendezvous with this smuggler guy who was coming through the wormhole, hand over the money and get the weapons.  

And Swindle knew frag-all about the Sith Empire - only that an ‘uprising’ was happening there, for the suppression of which excellent weapons were being churned out; and that thanks to the likes of his contact, they made it out-of-sector despite the quarantines. Swindle didn’t need to know more. _Pay the guy - ask no questions. Load up the gear and leave._

Yep – all in order. Onslaught was going to be so pleased! This was the start of a great new future.

He’d told Onslaught, of course, that he already had the money. Because, of curse, he was going to get it. It was just that ….

 _Well where the heck was Smokey?_

………………..

A breem later, there was still no Smokey. Swindle studied the datamenu, a touch of anxiety now creeping in. Thoughts of Onslaught’s  ‘crew’ - the ones who payed ‘visits’ to ‘problem’ mechs, drifted into his processor. Ex military types, they were - mainly rotaries and heavy duty artillery types. There was one who ‘questioned’ the problem-mechs. And there was a ‘basement’ at Onslaught’s place in Iacca Niara …..

Swindle had heard all sorts of rumours. ”It’s useful,” Onslaught had said. “My rivals keep a distance, and timewasters know not to waste my time. I’m sure you don’t like your time wasted either. Do you Swindle?”

The businessmech shuddered. Maybe he would get another drink! He studied the menu, thinking something stronger may be in order - when out of the corner of his optic there was a flash of blue and red.

Swindle looked up to see the Praxan charge through the door in a flurry of fast footsteps and doorwings. Heads turned. Smokey stopped and looked anxiously around.

Relief swept through Swindle; and, he noted - his former buoyant mood returning with a vengeance - the mech really did cut a nice looking form! And, better still, Smokey looked wonderfully anxious to please.

Swindle gave Smokey a little wave. The mech spotted him, and his face lit up; and now he was headed over. The businessmech shifted, so that the lights reflected on his chassis, showing off the yellow and purple hues. He was most happy again. With Smokey’s every approaching step, the _extremely good opportunities_ came closer.

…………………….

Smokey was at the table, blue optics sparkling. Swindle caught again that heat blended with the faint aroma of arousal.  He wondered how much more evident this would be if the ‘social restraint’ programming – which Praxans were known for – were not keeping him under control. Inwardly, Swindle chuckled, feeling a tingle in his own circuits. He liked that thought immensely!

“Hey!” Swindle said, noting that the nearby femmes were watching them closely.

“Hey …” Smokey hovered, looking unsure of himself. “Look - uh - Sorry I’m late!” he said. “Late clients, late break. You know how it is! Well – you probably don’t. Uh …”

“Don’t mention it!” Swindle said cordially. “Say - I hope I didn’t set your schedule outta whack.” His optics fell on the empty glass.  “Hey – let's have a drink! Hopefully you'll tell me something worth celebrating. I’ll have a platinum isotope cocktail, laced with tailings and stirred!”

A shadow seemed to cross Smokey’s face. “Uh – yeah! Right ….”  he said.  

Swindle’s responses were automatic. Deepening the shade of his optics, he set them to maximum aperture. “Yeah! Look I know it’s not the cheapest,” he said, injecting just a touch of melancholy. “But I just spent my last credits and I’m allergic to low grade stuff. Besides …” he smiled charmingly. “We oughtta make this a special occasion!”

“No … no it’s fine. Honest. It is. Yeah!” And now, Smokescreen had an ‘awkward’ demeanour. He looked at Swindle longingly, almost pleadingly as he tried to smile back.

Swindle felt his spark sink. For now he had the feeling Smokey’s reactions were due to a good deal more than the cost of the drink.  

Though Smokey was trying to make it _look_ like that was all it was. “It’s just – uh – _midcycle,_ ” he was burbling. “I was just gonna have a straight midgrade. But hell – no problem!” The doorwings twitched, agitatedly. “No – no problem at all! D’you – want anything else?”

“As it happens – yeah – I’m peckish!” Swindle said, deciding to push this a little further. “How about some H-two release wedges to nibble on while we talk tactics?”

“Right ….” The Praxan lingered, looking crestfallen, as though some major disappointment was coming.

Swindle frowned. “Say – there’s not a problem, is there?” he said.

“No!” Smokey said quickly. “Well – not really. I’ll – uh get the drinks and wedges!”

He hurried away to the bar. Swindle looked after him, his lips pursing. So there _was_ a problem. Damn!

And then, Swindle chastised himself for thinking this would be so simple. Sure the mech wanted to help, was half falling over himself with desire to do that and desire for Swindle. But he was a Praxan!

And therein lay the difficulty. They had ‘standards,’ Praxans did. Bilaterally reproduced creations, they prided themselves on selective bondmating, monogamous relationships and the careful planning of well programmed creations  - ones immersed in honesty and ‘playing by the rules.’

No matter how ‘different’ was Smokey, or how tempted he was by Swindle's golden hues, if that conehead boss had chosen, after Swindle’s departure, to ram some _no security no loan_ policy into Smokey's processor, then Smokey would want to comply.

Swindle thought of the ‘basement’ again.  Momentary despair flitted through him. But then, the clink of expensive cutlery floated back from the Alpha section, and Swindle’s opportunism programming clicked in, asserting itself with the vehemence which had made him, too, different, and not a nobody in Tarn, and - despite the odds - destined for greater things.

As ever, Swindle felt a wave of powerful optimism. He was not going to end up in a basement. Or let this opportunity go by! If worst came to worst he’d just plain _bust in_ and hold this place up! He was sure the ‘touch’ for that had not vanished either.

 _But no,_ Swindle decided firmly.  All that kind of stuff was in the past. It belonged to his mechelescent ‘experimental’ times. He’d come far since then, and, besides, this was Iacon Central - not a precinct in the boondocks at Tarn.

Smokey just needed a little ‘encouragement.’ And a little more faith in his own talents – as well as Swindle’s.

…………….

Smokey was back, and putting the drinks on the table. He smiled, nervously, as a waitmech appeared also and put down a tray of wedges. “Help yourself!” he said.

Swindle reached out and took a wedge, crunching on it as he took the opportunity to perve at Smokescreen some more. Powerful thigh servos flexed as Smokescreen sat down opposite, and Swindle could not help but notice the well crafted components sliding into place and the near invisible pelvic armour seams near his very ample codpiece.

Swindle felt certain stirrings within those parts of his own anatomy. Yeah - those Praxans sure knew their programming! There were, indeed, other rather nice reasons for all this succeeding. But no – he must first get down to business. The rest would be the reward for the money. For both of them.

Smokey still looked unhappy. Perched on his chair, the Praxan played with a wedge in his hand. Putting on his most competent, businessmechly veneer, Swindle came straight to the point. “So - you can fix the loan OK?" 

A look of despair came on to Smokey’s face. “Uh – about that …” he stammered.

Swindle smiled pleasantly. “Don’t worry too much,” he said. “I won’t need it till tomorrow at six-two-o-thirty.”

Smokey looked as though a dart had just been planted in his chest plating. He winced. “The trouble is….” His optics took on a pleading look. Swindle cocked an optic ridge. “The bank has very strict rules about securities!”

 _Oh how I hate being right all the time!_ Swindle thought. He put down the half eaten wedge and gave a loud sigh. “Oh dear ....” he said adjusting his optics back to maximum liquidity and disappointment appearance. "Oh dear .... very disappointing ...."

“I’m sorry!” Smokey burst out. “I’d just like you to know that …” Several heads had turned in their direction. The Praxan dropped his voice. “I’d just like you to know that if there’s any other way I can help you .... _any way at all_ …. I’m your mech!”

Picking up the wedge again and turning it over, Swindle gave a loud sigh, his brows furrowing.  

Smokey was looking at him pleadingly. ”There’s other ways of getting money!” he cried. “I’m not bad when it comes to luck on the track. Axis - you know – the Alphamech racers. I follow the form! If you could come up with _something_ , I’m sure I could triple it. Hell - I’d even use my own reserves!”

There was a sudden unexpected 'twang' in Swindle’s spark. He reached for his drink, his optics still wide and glassy – and not all from opportunity programming. He found himself strangely touched. This mech really liked _him_ – not just what he had to offer. For Swindle, that was rare; in fact, for all his cute looks and numerous berth-partners and opportunistic affairs, he had only ever experienced it once.

There was probably something in Smokey’s suggestion, too. The industry surrounding the Axis Track was fraught with skulduggery and fixings – even though the Alphas would never admit this.

But no - it was altogether too risky. And this was business - not sentimentality! Pulling himself together, Swindle returned to his earlier plan:  ‘enlightening’ Smokey about his ‘capabilities.’

Smokey’s optics were immensely blue; and he still had that ‘pleading’ look. Swindle smiled kindly across the table. “Y’know – you’ve done pretty good in this place,” he said. “I can tell.”

The Praxan looked surprised. “You can?” He brightened a little. “Well that’s cool! My cousin got me this job, see! He was always on about how I’d never stick at something, but uh – well – I’m still here!”

“You sure are!” said Swindle. “And very competent and capable you come across as too! Why, the way your boss looked at you – its obvious he thinks you’re good. And when I was going down in the lift, see, that guy in the office next to yours was real surprised you’d see anyone but a ‘regular’!”

Smokey sat back. He looked incredulous. “But my boss thinks I’m lazy and uncreative! I know that’s a joke, coming from him. But he says it all the time! And as for Greyhide and me – we don’t even get along!” He shook his head. “He doesn’t like it, see, cos a lotta mechs come in an’ look at the two of us, and then – well – they come see me!”

Swindle let out a little peal of laughter. “Well hey - doesn’t that tell you something!” He allowed his optics to coast over the other’s frame, noting how Smokey gave a little shiver. “I’m sure your boss is just uh - under pressure - when he says that kinda stuff.”

Smokey’s hands were clutching the glass, tight. Reaching across, Swindle trailed a finger down the back of one. The metal buzzed warmly, and Smokey shivered again. “He likes you, really. I could tell.”

The Praxan’s intakes gave a hitch and he shifted. Swindle could sense the desire, the pleasure, feel Smokey almost bursting with desire to ‘help.’ “Yeah - but I sure wish I could so something for you!” he whispered. _Oh,  but you can – you will!_ Thought Swindle.

Swindle drew back, looking at his companion studiously. “I was thinking,” he said slowly, “You must have access to a _lotta_ information.”

Smokey nodded. “I do!” he said “Any account in the Bank – if needs be.”

“Any part of your job must be – seeing clients’ funds are well looked after?”

“Well - yeah …”

Swindle looked around, noting that a good proportion of the café’s clientele had headed back to work. Which was helpful. He leaned closer. “Which is why I'm thinking ... if you were to kinda – borrow – a few credits from somebody’s account …..”

But Smokey’s optics widened, instantly. “But that would be stealing!” he cried. “I couldn’t …”

Swindle caught his wrist, gently but firmly. “I said _borrow_ ,” he said. “You get to pay them back – _with interest!”_

Smokey looked doubtful, but Swindle went on: “Pick the right account and no-one will even notice! But if you did get caught – well, you were helping customers invest on the side, weren’t ya? Now …” he smiled, turning the grip to a soft stroking. “Full marks for creativity, Smokey!”

Smokey’s optics shone. Putting down the glass, his fingers found Swindles' and he clutched them. “You know my name!” Swindle squeezed back, gently. “Yeah!” he whispered. “Greyhide said. Now - c’mon on .... do this for me!”

But then, Smokey pulled back, turning serious again.  Swindle could almost see the turmoil as his processor churned, as rules and morality warred with desire. For a second, Swindle thought he had lost – and then, he remembered the betting slips in the offices, and the reference to Axis. “You’re a risk taker,” he said softly, clasping his hand again. “Wouldn’t you say this was worth a gamble?”

And just for final encouragement, Swindle flared his energy field. Just mildly.

Swindle took in the simmering response, barely suppressed, the thrumming lust and longing.  Nevertheless, doubt still flickered in Smokey’s optics one last time. Then, he gave in. “I reckon I could organize something!” he whispered.

“That’s the spirit!” Swindle lifted Smokey's hand. Leaning over, he planted a lingering kiss on the warm metal.

Then, sitting back, the businessmech picked up his glass. “To us!” he said, raising it. “To a win-win situation!”

“And when I get back from the deal,” he added, absolutely delighted with the result, and especially by the sheer adoration he now saw in the other mech’s optics, “we’re both gonna celebrate. _Together_!”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A melancholy Smokescreen awaits Swindle's return - but gets an unexpected comm
> 
> *Warnings for sticky smut and masturbation preliminaries.*

In his small apartment on the outskirts of Iacon Central Business District, Smokescreen sat miserably on his second hand settee. On the table in front of him a pile of empty high grade cubes cluttered the unwashed surface. It was seven cycles since Swindle and he had parted company. Two since he, Smokescreen, had turned up for work.

Smokescreen reached for another cube. The money was gone. And Smokescreen knew, deep in his spark - whether he liked it or not - that it may be gone for good. He took a deep draught from the cube, grateful to the fiery liquid for increasing his already drunken state.

The money was not the problem. As far as that went, Smokescreen had done what he’d said he’d do in the first place: betted it on the track. And of course, he’d gotten lucky. Very lucky. Lucky enough to not only replace the funds in the unsuspecting benefactor’s account with interest - as Swindle had suggested but also to provide a little windfall to himself.

A windfall which he should be sharing right now with Swindle, the Datsun clan-member thought balefully. Especially since it had all gone so well. He’d had a small lecture from Dirge about the Bank being ‘here to make money out of people, not provide them with it.’ But otherwise, he’d covered his tracks. Everything had gone splendidly.

But he wasn’t sharing the success with Swindle. And the money mattered not now. Even had it not been recovered, it wouldn’t have mattered; he would have dealt with the situation somehow. What mattered - what had become almost unbearable - was the terrible gnawing absence of Swindle himself.

..........

Smokescreen’s finger tapped agitatedly on the glass. What if something has happened to him?

Rising, he paced to the window, looking out upon the looming, megalithic buildings at the edge of Iacon central. Behind rose the Great Scarp which dammed the waters flowing from the Iron Hills. From the lake above, the tasteful mansions of the Towers District rose against the orange backdrop of hills and the pinkish Cybertronian sky.

Smokescreen shuddered. What Swindle did was so dangerous! Business here in Iacon invariably meant dealing with the Towers Alphas, and they did not take kindly to competition. Especially when Iacca Niara, the repository of those deposed from their most esteemed echelons, was in the equation! And especially when semi-castes, of which Swindle was one, Smokescreen was certain, were involved.

Smokescreen took a few large gulps from the cube. He had blathered on too much to Swindle about himself. Instead, he should have talked more about the Towers set, made Swindle aware of their politics, their ruthlessness and intolerance. And what if somebody had, in fact, found out about the ‘borrowing? What if they’d somehow traced Swindle, and he’d been done away with in a dark alley before he could even get near this ‘deal?'

As this and other equally terrible scenarios filled the Datsun’s processor, his spark went cold. He, Smokescreen, had put Swindle in this position!

A wave of drunken-ness washed over him. He watched as a space shuttle came into view, speeding over the scarp and the Towers before changing attitude and escalating rapidly to the heavens. Swindle was doing this deal offworld. Maybe Alphas weren’t involved at all. They probably weren’t. Swindle was probably fine!

There was, after all, another quite legitimate explanation. Swindle had simply ‘dumped’ him.

Returning to the settee and sitting down heavily, Smokescreen looked unhappily at the unvaccumed floor. His optics strayed, catching sight of the edge of the unmade berth in his room and the stack of unwashed utensils through on the kitchen workbench. He had been so certain he and Swindle were destined to have a ‘thing.’ Yet - yes he had to face facts - it could well be the case that they wouldn’t.

It was that thought which had made Smokescreen so despondent that he could not even clean up, let alone work. Unable on his bank salary to afford a cleaning drone, he’d simply wallowed in the mess.

Leaning back, the blue and red mech shuttered his optics. At least there were memories. And he smiled to himself as his mind went back once again to that wonderful lunch in the canteen, and the conversation. And - afterwards.

........

Once the ‘business’ side had been sorted, the rest of the lunch had passed in a happy haze. Smokey had felt so at ease with Swindle. His lovely purple optics had gleamed as Smokescreen had told him all about Praxus, and the house in Obelisk Square, and the Clan, and especially his cousins Prowl and Bluestreak.

Swindle had shown such polite interest, asking all about Praxus, yet so understanding when Smokescreen had explained his trouble with ‘fitting in.’ He had chuckled when Smokescreen had gotten to how he’d been expelled from the Praxus College of Excellence and been forced to attend the little heard of school in the eastern suburbs; encouraged, Smokescreen had gone on to reveal how he’d emerged with few qualifications, and been down and out; how his talent for gambling had meant he’d survived - just - but how Prowl had remonstrated about this being ‘no life for a member of the Datsun clan,’ and had gotten him the job at the Bank.

"You really are impressive!" Swindle had said, as he’d polished off his drink, plus another plate of wedges. "A real go-getter. I like that! Stick around and I could see if this contact of mine has any more openings. I reckon he’d like your style!"

Swelling inside with happiness and pride, Smokescreen had ordered more drinks, only too happy to foot the bill. Swindle, after all, had great things in store for them both!

Now, though, Smokescreen could have ripped out his logic circuits. For he had, indeed, talked about himself too much, and he had certainly gone on about Prowl fartoo much. Had he not learned by now that the most innocuous of mechs could go funny about law enforcers? Sensitive about them, they were, if things had gone wrong in their lives and cops had been involved.

No! Smokescreen’s life history had spilled merrily out, with little sensitivity, whilst Swindle had said virtually nothing about his own past! In fact, Smokescreen had realized, later, he'd found out virtually nothing about him at all!

And how self centred, how narcissistic was that? What if tragedy had struck Swindle’s life? What if the thought of a cop stalking in Smokescreen’s background had threatened to rekindle some terrible sparklinghood memory?

Leaning forward, Smokescreen finished the cube. Then he put it on the table amongst the others and put his face in his hands. He should have kept his mouth shut. Or, instead of raving about Prowl, whose achievements - for Primus sake - he didn’t really give the pit about - he should have talked about Bluestreak, his other cousin’s achievements as an artist and actor. That would have been far more - productive.

Oh yes - if he’d just stuck to that, Smokescreen could probably have had Swindle sitting here now!

As it was, he barely deserved him.

.......

The day ticked on. The distant sounds of Iacon at the busiest time of the cycle drifted in, but around the moping mech, the room was still and silent. Allowing the high grade effects to wash around his systems, Smokescreen tried to forget about Swindle, tried to muster some positive ‘life goes on’ type thoughts. After all, was that not how he usually coped with ‘difficult’ times?

There was always the Track. Smokescreen could go there now. He could take the ‘profits’ from his clandestine activities. Put them all on the blue and white racer, the one whose creator was a big shot in Iacon and disapproved of his creation’s presence at Axis. But the creation was a sensation there. Yeah! The thought was exciting. He’d pulled off first place the other night, he would do it again. Smokescreen could double the profits!

Yet, the good feelings dissipated almost as soon as they arrived. What would he do with the money? There was no yellow and purple, cute wide-optic mech to spend it on. And it would do nothing to satisfy the other ‘needs’ with which he ached after Swindle’s departure - the ones which had arisen after what happened when they left the canteen.

Determinedly, Smokescreen thought instead of Vibrations, and of the blue grounder. A tingling went through his circuits. Maybe he should get down there. Seek out the grounder, manoeuvre him into that back room, and frag him so hard there’s be no room for nothing in his process except the glorious all consuming rush of overload ....

The thought sent currents zipping through Smokescreen’s interface relays. Ah yes, this was more like it! Leaning back and spreading his legs, ran a hand over his codpiece, which thrummed, warmly.

But it was not a good move: for thoughts of Swindle returned with a vengeance! Heat swept through him, his spike pressurising as an agony of wanting went through his core and spark, so strong that the Datsun groaned.

Maybe he should think about what happened after all. Then in a while this would give him the release he needed. Satiate him for a while, anyway. Tilting his head back, Smokescreen offlined his optics again.

.........

On the way down to the main entrance, he and Swindle had walked side by side. Smokescreen had chattered on, talking authoritatively about the Bank and its structure and workings; as the looks from others made it obvious that the cute yellow mech with the purple optics could have had his pick here.

But he’d chosen Smokescreen! And Smokescreen had felt like he was walking on air, his whole being swelling with pleasure and pride and he bounced along beside him, a spring in his step as his doorwings twitched happily.

Now and then, through semi deliberate effort on both their parts, their knuckles brushed. Each time, electricity ripped into Smokescreen, up his arm and through his core, and he was filled with an intense desire to haul Swindle somewhere and demonstrate his ‘enthusiasm’ for his new ‘associate.’

And it was as though Swindle had read his mind, for they had glanced at each other, their optics meeting and he’d read in Swindle the same needs as his own.

And they’d just happened to be passing one of the many alcoves in the grand main corridor, wherein were situated statues and busts of various historical eminences in the bank’s annals of fame. Swindle had grabbed Smokescreen’s hand and tugged him quickly into one.

Behind a statue of Ultra Eminatus, one of the Bank’s founders, their mouths had hungrily found each others as hands eagerly explored panels and plating, fingers feverishly finding their way into seams in a rush of urgent exploration.

Smokescreen had heated so fast he’d been certain the ‘radiance’ would be felt by those traversing the corridor outside. And if not that then certainly the little noises they both made as Swindle pressed against him, his glossa twined around Smokescreen’s, their frames shuddering as codpieces rubbed together. Yet the uninterrupted hollow echo of footsteps had suggested the bank’s patrons were carrying on regardless, oblivious, it seemed, of this passion in their midst.

The kiss went on .... and on. Smokescreen did not recall ever having kissed another so desperately and frantically; so much so that they had nearly done it, right there! Swindle had leaned his head to one side and Smokescreen had mouthed and nibbled at neck cords, his hands squeezing at Swindle’s shoulder wheels as the smaller mech moaned.

Then their bodies were entwined, their interface equipment pressing together, separated only by a few sheets of metal. He’d felt the heat from Swindle’s spike and gone wild inside, his own ‘equipment’ bulging hot with the need to escape its confines. He’d felt Swindle’s hands on his aft and then stroking the insides of his thighs, and he’d moaned, parting his legs and kissing all over swindle’s neck as his hands roved down Swindle’s sides.

And then, Swindle had trembled against him, and flared his energy field, and there’d been a small crackle of sparks between their codpieces. At that point, footsteps had faltered in the corridor and he’d heard a femme’s cultured, very obviously Alpha voice, followed by a comment about ‘security.’ They had both frozen, and then Swindle had pulled back, leaving Smokescreen’s own field buzzing, his core temperature at ridiculously high levels and his spike hard and wanting.

"I think maybe we oughtta take this slowly!" Swindle had whispered, his voice filled with static, those purple optics wide and fluid and so deep Smokescreen could have drowned in them. A small black hand had stroked his face. "There’s gonna be plenty of time for this. Trust me!"

There were more mutterings from the corridor, and Smokescreen had known that much as the passion raged in him Swindle was right. Composing himself, he’d seized the yellow mech by the hand and led him quickly out of there, past the stares of the two femmes, past a lone, rather tired looking security mech and swiftly along the rest of the corridor to the concourse, and to the great revolving doors. There, they’d exited the bank to stand on the street.

But Smokescreen been unable to resist it. As they went through the doors, he’d felt Swindle’s hand on his aft and had groped back, sliding his fingers over the smooth metal. Then, outside, he’d pulled him into his arms and kissed him wildly one more time, emotion and desire raging like a mighty tide and surging through him, and not caring who saw.

But Swindle had only part responded. "Like I said - later!" he’d said, pulling back. Then he’d grinned, charmingly at Smokescreen, given him a playful peck on the cheek and a tweak of his chevron.

"See you soon!" he’d said. "Don’t forget the money. Oh - and don’t forget me either!"

And then he was walking away, disappearing into the crowds as Smokescreen stared after him, a mass of longing and anguish and frustration.  
.........

Forget him? How could Smokescreen possibly have done that? For a start, his pulsing energy field and rigid spike had demanded immediate relief, something which he’d attended to post haste in the ablution room on his level before returning, satiated to a degree, to attend to his afternoon clientele and organise the ‘business’ for Swindle.

And that had made it a little easier to keep his mind on his work, although it still drifted readily, to the point where his ‘expert’ financial advice emerged as gibberish, causing confused and sometimes annoyed looks on the faces of his clients. And every time Dirge had stalked past - something he had chosen to do this cycle with an almost obsessive enthusiasm - Smokescreen prayed that the heat in the ablution room coupled with the scent of ozone and transmech fluid was not too easily attributable to him, and that on the next passage Dirge would not open the door and say in that melancholy drawl of his. "A moment, Smokescreen. If you please ...."

Smokescreen’s loins were throbbing again. As they had periodically ever since. He had had to avail himself a few times of the ablution room, and other places when thoughts of Swindle had seized him. In an alleyway en route home, in the stairwell a couple of times and, of course, lots in the sanctity of his own apartment.

And of course he’d thought this was only temporary, that it would not be long at all until the real thing was within his grasp; but as he felt the familiar burning desire again, the Datsun clan member had to conclude that this was unlikely; that he was destined to a broken spark, miserable pessimism and eternal masturbation in the painful memory of what could have been.

...........

Smokescreen cracked another cube. Aware that on top of his other moribund, hopeless thoughts he now needed an overload. Badly, as his pressurising spike and the info monitor of the rapidly swelling charge in his circuits was telling him.

Well that, at least was something he could attend to. And without going to nightclubs or seeking out grounders. Opening his legs, he gave the command for his spike cover to open, allowing the charge to rise and letting off a small energy flare. His frame shuddered. Yes - at least he could lose himself in this.

His hand was on the opening codpiece, ready to grasp his emerging spike. Smokescreen rearranged himself so he could thrust easily into his hand. Oh yeah, this was gonna be good ....

He’d make an extra special effort to think of mechs other than Swindle who turned him on. With any luck it would blot out everything, including Swindle, and leave him ready to explode in other mechs for real sometime soon.

Maybe Vibrations wasn’t such a bad idea ....

It was unfortunately, that at this precise moment, Smokescreen’s comm went off.

His spike froze in mid emergence, his hand poised above it. And then, his spark leaped with joy - as instantly there was only one thought in his processor. Swindle!!

He called! Everything else could wait.

"Hey!" Smokescreen said, his spike sliding back in as he stood up and walked to the window, not ashamed at all of the excitement and a grin appearing on his face as his chevron gleamed in anticipation. "HEY!"

"Smokescreen?" a familiar, matter of fact voice said. "Where are you? I called the Bank. You weren’t at work!"

Later, Smokescreen would have said it was difficult to describe just how much he deflated, how the bubble of excitement which had suddenly appeared burst, and how depressing was the pall it left in its wake.

"Oh - uh - hello Prowl!" he said, flatly.

"Smokescreen!" his cousin came straight to the point. "There’s trouble in Kaon. We need to talk ..." he hesitated, "I may need you to go there!"

Smokescreen put down the cube. "Uh - WHAT?" he said.


End file.
